W is for Wasted (Kinsey Millhone 23)
He smiled. “Cozy.”
“That’s one word for it,” I said. “Can I ask a personal question?”
“As long as I’m not under oath.”
“I was wondering what brought you to Santa Teresa.”
“This is my hometown. I grew up three blocks from here. My father taught math at Santa Teresa High back in the forties and fifties.”
I made a face. “Math’s not my strong suit.”
“Nor mine,” he replied. His smile activated dimples I hadn’t noticed before. His teeth were charmingly buckled and flashed white against the dark of his complexion.
“Did you go to Santa Teresa High by any chance?” I asked.
“Yes, ma’am. I graduated class of nineteen and thirty-three, long before you were born. I attended City College for two years, but I couldn’t see the point.”
“Really? Same here. I went two semesters and then quit. Now I wish I’d stuck it out, but I sure don’t want to go back.”
“Better to get an education while you’re young. My age, it’s too late.”
“Hey, mine, too. Did you like school? I hated it. High school, at any rate. I was a low-waller, smokin’ dope half the time.” Low-wallers were the kids who loitered before and after classes on a low wall that ran along the backside of the school grounds.
“I was straight A’s. Then life came along and I guess while you went up in the world, I went down.”
“I wouldn’t call this up.”
“Up from where I stand.”
I didn’t know if he viewed himself as a victim or a realist. I could hear the coffee machine gurgle to a halt and I got to my feet. “What do you take in your coffee?”
“Milk and two sugars, please.”
“Sugar for sure. Milk could be a problem. Let me see what I can do.”
I left the office and went down the hall to the kitchenette, where I opened my pint-size refrigerator and gave the milk carton a sniff. Slightly off, I thought, but I’ve heard that sometimes the residue of milk on the pour spout sours before the rest. I filled two mugs with coffee and added milk to mine, checking for the telltale curdling that suggests beaucoup bacteria at work. No evidence of spoilage, so I added a big dollop to his coffee and returned the carton to the fridge.
I handed him his mug and two paper packets of sugar and resettled myself in my swivel chair. I held up a finger. “Before I forget . . .” I leaned down and extracted the three packs of cigarettes from the shoulder bag at my feet and pushed them across the desk. “Consider this a bribe.”
“Much appreciated. I’ll pass along a pack each to Felix and Pearl.”
“Pearl, in particular. I was hoping to elevate myself in her opinion.”
There was a dip in the conversation. My usual practice is to let the silence lengthen until the other fellow gets squirmy enough to speak his mind. This time, I took the lead. “I’m assuming you didn’t walk all this way to pay a social call.”
“Not entirely. Don’t take this wrong, but your asking about Terrence really set Pearl off.”
“As I’m keenly aware. What’s the big deal?”
“She says you smell like a cop.”
“That’s because I was a cop, once upon a time. I was with the STPD two years and then I got out. I like playing by the rules when it suits, but I don’t like answering to anyone.”
“Understandable,” he said. “Then again, Terrence hadn’t been dead a full day when you came sniffing around. Her words, not mine.”
“‘Sniffing’ seems an odd choice. I told you I was hoping to locate his family, which is not a federal offense. Right now, he’s a John Doe. His name might be Terrence, but that’s the extent of what we have. The coroner’s office is swamped this week, so I said I’d see what I could find out. What’s she think I’m up to?”
“She’s suspicious by nature while I’m the opposite. I believe most folks are honest until proven otherwise.”
“My policy as well,” I said. “What else is bugging her? We might as well put all our cards on the table as long as you’re here.”
“She thinks you’re not being honest about who you’re working for.”
“What, like I’m an undercover agent? I’m self-employed. None of my work has anything to do with Terrence, dead or alive. You don’t believe me, you can search my files.”
“You don’t work for St. Terry’s?”